Part 7 (2/2)

”Good-bye, then.”

She started to say something else, and I cut her off with the push of a b.u.t.ton on the manual remote. I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. It seemed everyone wanted to give me money today. Too bad it wouldn't cure what ailed me.

Leaning back on the sofa, my gaze fell upon my shoulder case containing my MacBook and the DVDs. Without thinking, I reached for it.

There was only one disk I wanted to review. I held Madeleine's DVD in my hand. It weighed barely an ounce and was the only tangible part of her that remained. I didn't even have a picture of her. My vision blurred with tears and a part of me wanted to fling it against the wall-do anything to end the pain I felt. Instead, I opened the jewel box, pulled out the disk and slid it into the MacBook's DVD slot.

A moment later, it began....

7.

I left the wheelhouse a few minutes after Captain Pierce and walked the few steps to the radio room. Aside from the luxuries Harlan's money had purchased, he'd spared no expense in recreating bygone technology. The radio room, or rather, the Marconi Room, was in every sense a museum piece. Every component of the Marconi Wireless System was reconstructed to perfection, from the copper sheen of the induction coil to the burnished steel of the spark-gap generator, all mounted to dark wooden cabinetry stained and varnished to a l.u.s.trous glow.

I found the wireless operator sitting at his station, monitoring the radio traffic, heavy Bakelite headphones clamped to his head. He saw me and smiled, lifting them off.

”Yes, sir, can I help you?”

The man's thick British accent sounded as if he'd originally come from somewhere up north, I guessed Manchester, or thereabouts.

”Can you really send anything on that?” I asked, pointing to the Marconi.

”Right you are. The range is nowhere near what a digital model can do, but it works.”

Since the Marconi company no longer existed, I'd arranged with a web designer friend, who dabbled in ham radio and knew Morse code, to receive my dispatches. He would be responsible for formatting my messages to look like hundred-year-old wireless messages and uploading them onto the t.i.tanic 2012 website. It was Marty's idea to call it that. I just hoped the novelty wouldn't wear off too fast.

”Do you wish to send a message, sir?” the Marconi operator asked.

”Uhh, yes,” I said, pulling out notes I'd made prior to boarding. I looked them over. ”Would it be better if I wrote it down, or dictated it?”

”Either way is fine, but I can key faster if I'm hearing it.”

I nodded.

”Okay, then, let's give it a try.”

”The name's Richards, by the way, Sammy Richards,” he said, indicating the chair next to him.

I shook his hand and sat down. ”Well, Sammy, this is likely to take a little while.”

”All right by me. Seems I'm not as popular as I'd hoped.”

He gave a sheepish shrug and turned to the wireless, adjusting the frequency with a slight twist of a large black k.n.o.b. I felt sorry for him. On the voyage of the original t.i.tanic, wireless communications were in their infancy, a novelty the pa.s.sengers exploited to the fullest, sending frivolous messages to loved ones. A century later, in the Digital Age, it was little more than a curiosity, a museum piece. And yet, if anything were to go wrong, it might be our only lifeline.

I nodded to him that I was ready and began: ”They say history repeats itself and all things that go around, come around. Well, today that is certainly the case. I am writing to you from the Marconi room just behind the bridge on the R.M.S. t.i.tanic....”

Twenty minutes later we were done, a total of a thousand words, far more than a real Marconigram. And I'd done a fair job of dictating, something I'd never liked doing. Millie, my computer, was easily capable of taking dictation as fast as I could speak, and of telling the difference between words like ”there” and ”their.” But I liked to have my hands on the keys. Besides the fact that I think better doing it manually, it also felt more like writing. I suppose I'm old fas.h.i.+oned in some ways.

Perhaps that was why Harlan's dream had seduced me.

Tucking my notes away, I thanked Sammy and left the Marconi Room. My next stop was Harlan's stateroom. I'd wanted to have him take me on a tour of the s.h.i.+p, and to interview him. No matter who else I might talk to about their reasons for coming aboard t.i.tanic, the book would not be complete without an interview with the man behind it all.

But it was not to be, at least not then.

I read something once, I forget where, that fate will always step in when you least expect it, and this was just such a time. When I left the Marconi Room, something made me turn toward the bow. Maybe it was the way the sun, now much lower in the water and turning a fiery orange, was glinting off the water. Or maybe it was simply that I wanted another look at the t.i.tanic's magnificent prow as it sliced the waves, heading toward Cherbourg. Whatever it was ceased to matter the moment I saw her.

From two-hundred feet away, she appeared childlike, fragile. She stood at the tip of the bow, feet firmly planted in the railings, arms outstretched at her sides. The wind billowed her dress and the shawl intertwined in her arms, making her appear as if she were about to take wing. I smiled then, both entranced and amused.

The woman was re-creating the famous ”flying” scene from the movie, the only missing element being a Leonardo DiCaprio stand-in embracing her from behind. What struck me as ironic was her actions seemed spontaneous and natural, the only surprising aspect being the absence of a long line of women waiting their turns.

With my previous intentions forgotten, I took the stairs down to the Well Deck, the area just aft of the forecastle, pa.s.sing between the two electric cranes.

The wind seemed stronger near the bow, and I bent into it, careful to avoid tripping over the auxiliary anchor, a solid piece of cast iron weighing in at fifteen tons.

The closer I drew to her, the more self-conscious I became, not knowing what I would say, if anything. She still hadn't moved from her position: arms out from her body, her head thrown back, eyes closed, her expression serene. She had a cla.s.sic beauty, a profile like that of an old cameo broach: A sharp, well-shaped nose sat above full lips curved in an enigmatic smile. And though her eyes were closed, I imagined them to be a deep emerald green contrasting perfectly with her thick mane of auburn hair. The wind whipped the hair about her face, but she seemed oblivious, almost in a trance.

I was about to go, not wanting to disturb her, when she spoke.

”Don't say it,” she said.

Her voice startled me, a sweet contralto, like music carried on a summer breeze.

”Excuse me?”

”I know what you're thinking. Don't say it.”

Her smile widened and she opened her eyes and turned to me. My breath caught in my throat. They were green, so green they almost glowed.

”You were thinking that, weren't you?”

”I-I don't know what I was thinking.” I blurted, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.

”Oh, surely you've got something going on in that handsome head of yours?”

She turned and started to climb down, and I moved to help her, grasping her hands in mine. Her skin felt cool, and slightly dry, no doubt from the prolonged exposure to the wind and sun. She wobbled a moment before steadying herself.

”Careful,” I said, ”it's a long way down.”

”Thank you, my Galahad,” she said, leaping to the deck.

Now that we were on the same level, I saw she was about six inches shorter than me, forcing her to look up to make eye contact. At this proximity those emerald eyes caught me in their vibrant splendor.

”To tell you the truth, I was wondering why you were the only one doing that.”

She laughed, a great burst of sound that brought a smile to my lips in spite of my nervousness.

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